One Beloved City, One Beloved Star
by SilverThornFeather
Summary: And as the door begins to close, a little light from the corridor beyond it, catches upon the corner of a gilt frame hung high upon the wall. It's contents, a tiny slip of paper, containing the ownership rights to a star named "Finn Hudson", given by a boy, long ago, in the hallway of an Ohio high school. Handed to her alongside a promise. That he would be there, no matter what.


It had become somewhat of a routine ever since. Friends had come and gone, offering her their condolences and leaving again. The seasons had merged from spring to summer, to autumn then winter before winding up at spring once more.

The groups of tourists huddled underneath patterned umbrellas around a rainy times square changed every day, each group seemingly louder and more star struck by the city than the last. She remembers being just as excited as they were, long ago, when just about everything in her life seemed perfect.

She pushes the bitter-sweet memory away and swipes at her left cheek as a single tear makes it's presence felt upon her face.

She looks out over her beloved city, through the slightly grubby window, of the Winter Garden Theatre. She imagines her idol once standing here, peering out across the same piece of skyline. She tries to imagine what would have gone through her head, though the turbulent times of 1964 seemed far away from her own torments.

She's still not used to the sheer size of the dressing room. At high school she'd dreamed of her own dressing table, illuminated by the muted glow of lightbulbs which framed the glass. Now she wonders how she could let such trivial dreams cloud over what was most important in her life.

One thing she's noticed since moving here, was that everything changes. From the weather to the newspaper headlines. New York isn't prepared to live in the past. She recognises that she should take a leaf out of New York's book, though she knows she isn't ready to change, yet. The only thing unchanging in her life was the opening and closing of the bottom drawer of the vanity unit.

She doesn't feel like performing tonight, can't imagine pulling out her smile from her wardrobe of theatrical faces. Just for once she wants to call up her understudy and fain illness. But she can't even bring herself to do that. Instead she cast her eye over the decanter that's awaiting her.

She approaches the table and sits down gingerly, almost as if she's afraid of what is to become of her if she gives in to it. Tonight though, she doesn't entertain the thought. She pulls the bottle from the drawer and removes it from its newspaper cradle, places it down next to the empty glass and goes to retrieve an ice-cube from the bucket which houses yet another bottle of un-opened French Champagne. She's built up quite a collection of those she muses. Once she places the ice-cube into the glass, she unscrews the stopper - the one barrier between herself and the emptiness she so longs to feel and watches as both the liquid and ice embrace, each swirling around the other, dancing in the center of the glass before slowing to a waltz. It looks foreign, that glass, among the countless scents and lotions. An outsider, ugly, surrounded by such beauty. She can relate to that.

There's a knock at the door, she hides the glass between a vase and the base of the mirror, before getting to stand.

"5 minutes to curtain Miss" says the young man.

She thanks him, before returning to the stool opposite her vanity. She picks up the glass, swirling the mixture around again before lifting it to her lips. She doesn't notice the taste anymore. Does it more for the feeling the familiarity of it all.

Soon enough the man returns, announcing that it is 2 minutes to curtain. She glances into the mirror, straightens her wig before applying a fresh coat of lipstick, not because she is lacking but simply for the feeling of accomplishment following.

She picks up the glass once more and downs its contents in one. She gasps as the tequila hits the base of her throat, burning as it hit her internal muscles before gulping down some lemon water. She steals one last glance at herself, her face still unfamiliar to herself before striding out of the door and into her directors arms who quickly ushers her away towards the stage.

And as the door begins to close, a little light from the corridor beyond it, catches upon the corner of a gilt frame hung high upon the wall. It's contents, a tiny slip of paper, containing the ownership rights to a star named "Finn Hudson", given by a boy, long ago, in the hallway of an Ohio high school. Handed to her alongside a promise. That he would be there, no matter where she was, shining down on her, for all the world to see.

Just as she show must go on for Rachel, Finn Hudson's light must shine on also.

As the final curtain falls, he presents her with one final accolade, a view of the stars. And from that same grubby window from which she received the fateful news all those months ago, she smiled.


End file.
